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Joshua Pracchia Poem
That an oral tradition has had such a lasting impact on humanity is astonishing.
Since they first came out of the mouths of people,
they have shot forth like an ever expanding bullet.
Through the barrel of time, always changing; morphing into other languages,
distorting and splattering themselves onto pages with God as the culprit.
1455: Gutenberg disassembles that power at the pulpit, and with his machine made it safe to handle the story, and for it to continue--fully automatic in the hands of the people.
Loaded onto ships, cocked back, bound in leather, and overseen by sages they became
canon fodder for vast bodies of people. Left to ponder this; the power of the old English word, and if all the dead had heard.
Copyright © Joshua Pracchia | Year Posted 2014
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Joshua Pracchia Poem
High or Low on the Brick Road; traveling to and from ones own abode.
The wind crashes, smashes cans and thus:
My home waltzes in a cacophony.
So long is the dead wait
In my red ballon hands.
Am I falling up or down?
Which is which is a matter of tempo
as the little notes grow into full bands
Now scared I go onward swiftly
into the darkness for rest
to be beaten by sins so originally
A lost resolve to continue on
My courage faded and legs felt rusty
The beauty of a flower delivered the answer
Closed but then opening, spiraling awake
Reveling and dancing to each new dawn.
Green with envy for what I had seen
I chose to pour water on both flowers and fear
Then instantly exposed the path back home
as being nothing more than a palindrome
Home is everywhere and everywhere is Home
Copyright © Joshua Pracchia | Year Posted 2014
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Joshua Pracchia Poem
Which form shall this poetry be?
I do not care, but let it rhyme I suppose.
My need to write within me grows
simple reflections yield emotional complexities
I swim in my own depths; alone,
and answers are so hard to find in here
no one but time finds me, now grown.
I wish I would have found you sooner, but I did not.
I cannot bring you back, it has been too long
I say I do not care,
and you know that is my fear.
My inner child; you may have known,
but forever locked in an ocean of emotion
that I cannot see clearly through; that sea of ambiguity,
of which everything is confusing, so I respond angrily.
I think when you mean to help and you call out
it sounds as a shout so I take another route
These feelings you have, we do not share.
I don't care...why must this be how we interact?
Copyright © Joshua Pracchia | Year Posted 2014
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